


Beside the Golden Door

by allfloodedwiththedawn



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Davey is a communist, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Katherine is a lesbian but its not super relevant, M/M, also both Davey and Katherine are jewish, and Jack has zero morals, and Katherine is like ruthless and machiavellian, and about the redemptive power of love and friendship!, can you tell I don't know how to use tags, everything's accurate except no homophobia cos I said so, its just newsies but darker folks, kind of OOC because everyone's a little bit more problematic, lots of history thrown in cos I'm a nerd, this fic is about growth and learning to be good people, this is my first fanfic on this site y'all be nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfloodedwiththedawn/pseuds/allfloodedwiththedawn
Summary: In which Jack sells his soul for a train ticket, Davey’s got blood on his hands, and Katherine’s ambition almost dooms them all.1899. New York City. Three people mess up, horribly, and then try to fix things.Updates Mondays.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all,  
> will update every week for a couple months and then sporadically b/c school is killing me and I don't have a ton of time to write. let me know what you think in the comments below! I've had a lot of fun writing this story and I'm excited to share it with you all.  
> <3

The world has changed. One hundred and twenty years have passed since Katherine Pulitzer wrote about the Newsboys’ strike. If Katherine lived today, she would be a brilliant student, studying in a top university, preparing for the glowing future ahead of her: a future where she gains respect and admiration, where she changes the world by virtue of her dedication and intelligence. But the year of the strike was 1899. New York City was a vicious place. Women had few options in life. German immigrants and their children- especially Jewish Germans- weren’t welcome. While the poor’s children slaved in factories, the children of the rich were trained to lead the fight in foreign wars, if they ever survived the sickness which came and took the air from your lungs until you hacked up blood and faded away.

Katherine was trapped. She was an animal in a cage, bitter and vicious and willing to do anything to escape. Sometimes, when it was all too much she would quietly, coldly lock herself in her grand, expensively furnished room and would write and write until it was too much, and then she would shred the paper and tear at the wood of the desk until her fingers bled. She knew she was doomed, doomed to a life of obscurity and suffering like her sister dead, like her mother meek and sorrowful, like the thousands of crushed women she saw in the street every day, all the spirit gone.

She had to marry, had to be a wife, had to submit to a man’s will and a man’s mind and, worst of all, a man’s body, and then bear his children until she died or grew so old and bitter that she shriveled away, or abandon her family and wealth and everything she had ever known, to throw herself on the mercy of an unforgiving world that doesn’t trust her, doesn’t approve of her, won’t help her- not given her sex, her religion, her youth, her stubborn pride.  
But she sees a way out: she is not the daughter of Joseph Pulitzer for nothing. Pulitzer wrote himself out of a life of poverty in the old country, war and discrimination and backbreaking work and complete irrelevance in the new. People liked his stories and they became his escape, his way out, the way he could be the one on top, so nobody could trample him down.

Katherine, trapped in lacy gowns and social expectations and grief for a sister that will never go away, in a brutal and a bitter world that will not be kind, in terrible fear of a too-certain future, will do the same. She will escape the trap of marriage her mother drowns in, and the miserable obscurity her sister died in. She will write. Everyone in the city will know her name, and nobody will force her to do anything. Katherine realizes, in the light of her ruthlessly efficient, calculating mind that she is brilliant, but brilliance is not enough when you are a woman reporter. She has fought and she has made it to the reviews, to praise or insult by turn the gaudy shows she secretly hates, but there is only one way she can ever be real, can ever make her name: she needs a story. A big story, the biggest one she can find, a story that makes the world stop and stare. To Katherine, her life depends on it. So if a story comes along, she will stop at nothing to get it.

\--

Davey is seventeen, and he has become everything his father hates. His father, a hardworking and patient family man, had come to the new world to escape the injustice, poverty, and politics of the old. He had done it after the death of his older brother- a dangerous radical- at the hands of the police and had sworn that his sons would never meet the same fate. They would be respectable, religious, dutiful in their studies, long-suffering, facing any real or imagined oppressors with peace and patience. They would not stay up late at night, reading Das Kapital in the original German they have not heard since early childhood, and they would not slip into the back of rooms to listen to angry men speak about a brilliant future that can only be gained through blood and vengeance.

Davey knows these things about his father and so he does not show himself. He does not reveal that he is following the way of his dead uncle, losing and finding himself in the words of thinkers who can see the brave new world before them, where class and race and property and all those lines dividing people don’t exist. His father tells him they must be like their ancestors in Egypt, who bore captivity patiently, and must be meek and forgiving to their oppressors. Davey agrees, in a way: the rich and powerful who run the city, the nation, the world are certainly like the Egyptians. But Davey extends the brotherhood of the Hebrews to all the workers and all the poor, he hears the voice from heaven calling him, he sees the burning bush in the fires of anarchy and radical socialism. He thinks maybe he can be like Moses, leading the people toward freedom. The time for being meek is over, the time for fighting has begun.

He is thirteen when he decides he would die for the cause. He is fifteen when he decides he would kill.

He is not naturally brilliant, the way Katherine is, her mind sharp and hard as diamond. Davey has no talent for speaking in public, or writing manifestos, or strategizing, organizing, any of it. He has to work at it, and work he does. His parents are surprised by the sudden praise from the school, but imagine he is just a dutiful boy. Davey says nothing, but buckles down and works harder, waiting for the moment the revolution begins.

When Davey’s sixteen, Les decides to find out where his big brother’s been sneaking off to. He’s eight and is hoping for the excitement of a poker game or something of that sort. When he hears the serious men talk about guns and war and he sees his friendly, loving, peaceful big brother taking notes diligently in the corner his temporary braggadocio disappears, he gets scared, and he runs out. By the time Davey gets home, Les has been put to bed, his mother is crying, and his father is silently brandishing a flyer like it is an order of execution. It says something about the rights of striking workers. 

It is the one time in his life Davey’s father hits him. After, it is one of the only times he sees his father cry. Mother and father reason with their stone-faced son, begging him to change his mind, to distance himself from these dangerous men. He does not understand why they cannot see, and all his well-practiced political arguments fail. At last, after they bring up Les- the danger to him, what would happen to Les if Davey died, if there was nobody left to watch out for him- he relents. No more politics.

For a while he keeps virtuously to his promise. It was a bit like a wake-up call, really. He should have realized he was getting in too deep, should have realized the destruction the men advocated couldn’t have been the way heaven was guiding him. But this fight is his first love, and his heart still stirs when he hears the angry speakers in the street, even while he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. A few months later and his father loses work. He takes his brother out, deciding they can work as newsboys. Nobody ever heard of politics among the scrawny boys who keep the lifeblood of news flowing through the city. Being a newsboy- a newsie- should be safe.

\--

Jack’s story does not begin with such deceit. He tells the truth about himself completely, when asked in words, and in other ways too: his accent, his slouching posture, his practiced uncaring attitude. All showed his story, almost identical to hundreds of other kids across the city. His parents came from Ireland in the turbulent 1870s with not a penny to their name. They were the huddled masses yearning to breathe free (words later inscribed on a plaque for a statue the German immigrant Joseph Pulitzer had helped raise 100,000 dollars for). Jack had been born on a cold night in 1882, and his sickly mother had died not long after. His father bounced between jobs and drinking bouts for the next few years. After a series of layoffs from the wealthy factory owners Jack later he came to despise- layoffs that triggered days without food, hours of staring out the window, waiting for a job, eviction, death, anything- he was stabbed in a bar fight and died on a rainy April night in 1890. Jack was eight. Having only attended school sporadically, nobody noticed when he began a life on the streets. A few days later, he was the youngest member of the Manhattan Newsies.

That was who he was, then. Another Irish orphan with no folks and no home, full of youthful bravado and general defiance. There was only one small aspect of this character not on the surface: Santa Fe. Nine year old Jack Kelly had spent three months in the Refuge, a three months he never forgot and never spoke about (except to relive his famous escape). After this period, he had developed a fervent dedication to the town. The few newsboys who noticed dismissed it as a personality quirk, but it didn’t disappear. By seventeen, Jack was just as devoted. It was what he worked for, what he lived for.

He only really ever told Crutchie about it. Crutchie was a slightly younger boy who had somehow made his way into Jack’s heart. It was, Jack would sometimes think in an uncharacteristic moment of reflection, the closest he’d ever get to having a family.

Jack sold papers, and he sold them well. He had to: every penny was precious to him, every paper sold a step closer to Santa Fe. Once he heard the boys joking that Jack would sell his own grandmother if it meant he’d make a better profit. Jack, who had never met his grandmother, thought they might have been right.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey and Jack met, characteristically, when Davey was being self-righteous and Jack was being arrogant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi beautiful people!
> 
> Most chapters will be a little longer than this one. Eventually the plot diverges more but for the first few I follow the musical script pretty closely and steal a lot of dialogue.
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!

It began in the hot summer of 1899, a cloudy day, the day before the strike. As always, the newsboys rose with the dawn, to get their papers early and beat the morning rush. Davey, his mind set on the new day, (and getting his little brother out of bed) rose too.

Davey and Jack met, characteristically, when Davey was being self-righteous and Jack was being arrogant. Davey, despite all his solemn vows of brotherhood with every last member of the proletariat, perhaps did feel a bit of contempt and hurt pride when a kid who spat in his hand to make a deal was the one bailing him out of trouble. Jack, who never had and never would make such vague promises towards the betterment of humanity, simply thought Davey was a bit full of himself.

“I’ll have twenty newspapers, please,” were the first words Jack heard out of Davey’s mouth. Out of a combination of curiosity and boredom, he had been watching the new kid- and his younger brother, who could prove useful.

He wasn’t impressed. It was just another lucky kid with a roof over his head and a future, down on his luck but gone in a few months anyway. And this kid, particularly, didn’t fit in. He wore his clothes neatly, spoke politely, kept his little brother close to him with the utmost caution, as though the poverty of the other kids might rub off. He was, in short, the opposite of a newsie.

“But whatever I don’t sell, you buy back, right?” The kid was saying. Jack raised his eyebrows and shared a look with Crutchie, as if to say ‘Who does he think he is?’ Sure, it would have been nice if the World worked that way. It would have been fair. But since when was the World fair?

The kid said nothing else after that, just took his newspapers and walked away, ignoring the snickers of the other boys. Jack was loath to admit something about the kid’s earnest demeanor stung his conscience, but when (with an extremely polite ‘sorry, excuse me,’) the newcomer announced he had been ripped off a paper, Jack stepped up. He was, in a way, (appointed by a sort of impromptu democracy, by virtue of sheer charisma and ability to win poker games and fistfights) the leader and protector of the Manhattan newsies, and it was therefore his solemn duty to annoy Wiesel at all costs. And it was to the benefit of everyone if each got an honest deal.

He squares off against Wiesel, the way he’s done a thousand times before. On a whim, (and a bit of curiosity on the subject of what the new kid’s smile would look like) he flips another coin on the counter.

“Give him another fifty papes,” he says, like the magnanimous leader he is. But his curiosity as to what the kid’s smile would look like goes unanswered- he scowls instead.

Davey wasn’t ashamed to be there. He wasn’t. He had told himself so firmly. Of course he was disappointed to miss school, but this was honest and respectable work. Plenty of kids had to drop out of school now and again. Family first, after all, he’d made that decision months ago. But it still stung when he saw his classmates walking by, to pleasant days studying Latin and algebra. 

He accepts the salesman’s terms without complaint, even though a small part of his mind (a part he quickly silences) is thinking about how such unfair business practices-putting all risk on the worker but giving little to no share of the profit-are becoming increasingly common. He is walking away from the watchful eyes of the newsboys (he doesn’t think of himself as one of them, not yet. He can feel them judging him and though just a few minutes ago he had been wishing to be in school, he now feels ashamed of his clothes, his accent, even his schooling. They all scream privilege and middle class at him and he is forced to remember the truth he’s spent months trying to forget-that all of them are born into circumstances they can’t control, circumstances society actively conspires to keep them in. Class is everywhere) and he notices he only has nineteen papers, and a spark of anger rises up. That’s not right.

He sees Les’s confused face and dismisses the temporary solution of pretending not to notice. “Sorry. Excuse me,” he says, keeping his voice level. “I paid for twenty but you only gave me nineteen,”

The man-Wiesel- turns an angry face towards him. Behind Davey, he senses the other newsies watching, and thinks strangely that they might be on his side.

“You see how nice I was to this new kid?” says Wiesel. “And what did I get for my civility? Ungrounded accusations,”

“I just want what I paid for,” says Davey firmly. He tells himself that’s true, he’s just trying to make money for his family, he’s not looking for trouble. He’s not.

He sees the thug behind Wiesel crack his knuckles but barely has a moment to realize what that means before a boy his own age snatches the papers out of his hands. The boy, with a round Irish face and brown puppy-dog eyes, is completely at home. He walks like he owns the whole square and Davey is immediately torn between admiration and annoyance.

“New kid’s right, Wiesel,” says the boy, and Davey thinks an ally. He’s going to thank the boy, he is, despite the cockiness, but then the boy pays for fifty more papers.

Davey isn’t even sure he can sell that many papers. What he does know is he won’t take charity, not from anybody. He’s not so poor he’s lost his pride.

“I don’t want more papes,” he says quickly. Inside, he cringes at how the word ‘papes’ sounds in his mouth. What if the other newsboys think he’s mocking them?

They are openly staring at him now. “What kinda newsie don’t want more papes?” says the boy-their leader, Davey guesses-scorn obvious in his tone. Despite himself, Davey feels his temper rise. He’s never sold papers before, how is he supposed to be good at it? He shouldn’t have to be ashamed of not being a newsie. He won’t take charity from this kid.

“I’m no charity case,” he says, “I don’t even know you,” then immediately regrets it when the kid’s face falls.

“His name’s Jack,” says Les, brightly. He hasn’t been bothered by dropping out of school at all, and considers it a grand adventure.

“This here’s the famous Jack Kelly,” says a crippled, curly-haired boy holding a crutch, as though he’s announcing the President of the United States. When that doesn’t impress Davey, he adds, “He once escaped jail on the back of Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage. Made all the papes.”

Davey is spared a response when the ex-convict pulls his tender nine-year-old brother aside and asks how old he is.

“I’m ten. Almost,” says Les, as Davey shoves his way over and glares threateningly at Jack.

“If anybody asks, you’re seven. Younger sells more papes, and if we’re gonna be partners…” 

Davey, spluttering in outrage, grabs Les by the wrist and pulls him away. “Who said we want a partner?”

“Sellin’ with Jack is the chance of a lifetime,” says the crippled kid, who Davey thinks could be annoying if he wasn’t so sincere. “You learn from him, you learn from the best.”

More charity, then. “If he’s the best, what’s he want with me?”

“Cause you got a little brother and I don’t,” says Jack, and Davey remembers that Jack-and all the newsies- don’t really have family. “That face could easy sell a thousand papes a week,”

Jack has a point. Les has gotten out of trouble many times just by charming the old ladies in their building.

“Look sad, kid,” Jack continues, and Les makes a face. Davey feels himself grin when all the newsies cheer, and snorts despite himself when Jack crows, “We’re gonna make millions!”

Jack and Les bargain while the others look on in mild amusement. To close their bargain, Jack spits in his hand. To Davey’s dismay, Les copies him before shaking.

“That’s disgusting,” he says loudly. 

“It’s just business,” says Jack, and shoots him a smile. Maybe it’s the excitement of the new day or Davey’s over-active imagination, but when Jack smiles, Davey thinks his heart skips a beat.

Davey resigns himself to the deal. He does need to learn how to sell papers, anyway, and his little brother doesn’t seem in imminent danger of being corrupted to anything worse than manipulating innocent pedestrians. And, his annoyance subsiding, he admits to himself that maybe this Jack Kelly isn’t so bad after all.

Katherine is not an employee of the World, and any time she spends in her father’s office is in a strictly personal capacity. This is what she tells her employers at the Sun.

If a daughter happened to pick up bits and pieces of newspaper know-how from hanging about her father’s office, or if a father happened to ask a trusted, intelligent family member their opinion on a business matter, then that was mostly personal, wasn’t it?

Besides, it wasn’t like her father asked Katherine’s opinion all that often, or particularly trusted it (he made a point of trusting nothing and no-one, actually, and in rare moments of father-daughter bonding advised Katherine to do the same). But sometimes- on the rare occasions when he was hesitant about a move- he might ask what she thought.

He was almost certain about raising the price of the paper for the newsboys. He had, at least, presented it as the perfect solution to Seitz and Bunsen. But there was a small doubt in his mind, which he explained carefully to his daughter that day over lunch.

“After all, Katherine,” he said in a tone that was almost affectionate, “You have certainly helped me realize how passionately stubborn the youth can be.” He was recalling the screaming matches of last year, when eighteen year old Katherine had loudly declared her independence and right to write articles. “Do you think those newsies could match your temerity? We wouldn’t want a scandal.”

Yes, thinks Katherine, playing with her roasted salmon, and then sipping her lemonade. Yes, I think so, she thinks about saying (even though the odds are he wouldn’t listen anyway), especially when their livelihood depends on it. But then, like a flash of lightning in a gray sky, she gets a funny intuition that maybe a scandal is just what she needs. Of course, very likely nothing much will come of it, and very likely her father wouldn’t listen anyway- but, when given the chance, would any aspiring reporter purposefully try to make New York more boring?

“Oh no, Father,” she says coolly. “I doubt anyone could match my temerity.”

Her father smiles, pleased. “Well then,” he says. “The price for the newsies goes up in the morning,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think (constructive criticism is good too!)


	3. Chapter Two

Les’s starving orphan demeanor proves useful, and Jack finishes selling papers faster than he has since the Wilcox train robbery. But Jack finds himself watching Davey’s earnest attempts to sell papers, even though he really should just go home. But Davey is so endearing, honestly-polite and respectful with everyone, occasionally trying to explain why the trolley strike is important (instead of just making it sound exciting). Most pedestrians ignore him, and he’s much slower selling papes than Jack or Les (although he’s good looking enough that several girls stop to buy a paper and make conversation. Jack isn’t sure how he feels about this.)

It’s beginning to get dark when Jack decides he’s had enough of watching Davey struggle and takes pity on him.

“Paper! Paper! Get your evening paper here!” Davey is saying, waving the paper ridiculously in the air like he’s some ancient general leading troops into battle.

“Sing ‘em to sleep, why don’tcha?” says Jack, grabbing the paper out of Davey’s hands and rolling his eyes. He thinks for a minute, then brazenly calls out to the next passerby: “Extra! Extra! Terrified flight from burning inferno! You heard the story right here!”

To Jack’s satisfaction, a middle-aged man immediately buys the story. “Thanks, mister!” he calls, and pockets the coin, then turns to grin at Davey, who is wearing a frown and has crossed his arms.

“You just made that up,” Davey says accusingly.

Jack shrugs. “Did not. I said he heard it right here, and he did!” For a moment, he thinks he’s won, that Davey will finally crack a smile. But Davey doesn’t, only says plainly: “My father taught me not to lie,” and that brings back memories, doesn’t it? Jack doesn’t want to think about his father or any of the things his father never taught him, so he just rolls his eyes, and says:

“Yeah, mine taught me not to starve,”

Davey winces at that, and Jack doesn’t notice. Before they continue, Les appears, strutting like a politician.

“Hey! I just sold my last paper!” he says proudly.

“I’ve got one more,” Davey says, grinning at Les’s enthusiasm. 

“Sell it or pay for it,” says Jack. Les immediately snatches the paper out of Davey’s bag, though, and runs up to a tall blond woman walking down the street: “Buy a pape from a poor orphan?” he says.

She buys it, and Jack crows at the look on Davey’s face. “Born to the breed!” Jack cries triumphantly. Les spins to look at him, still clutching his brand new dime, and Jack tips his hat extravagantly.

Les’ smile looks like it might split his face in two. “This is so much better than school!” he says brightly.

The statement seems to sting Davey, who cuts in sharply. “Don’t even think about it,” he says. “When Pop goes back to work, we go back to school,”

Jack thinks he’s heard that sort of thing before, but Davey and Les do seem like the type to get out. Without thinking about it, he talks to them like they’re any other newsies: “So how’s about we divvy up the money, grab some chow, then find you some place to sleep?”

There’s a funny sort of silence, where Davey just looks at him in slight surprise. “Uh, we gotta get home. Our folks will be waitin’ dinner,”

Oh, thinks Jack. “You got folks, huh?” he says, and he knows his voice isn’t casual and careless the way he intends, and this is not what he wanted at all. For a moment, he and Davey are staring at each other, each a little lost in wondering what it must be like (to have a family/to be alone) to be the other.

“Doesn’t everyone?” says Les, confused, and the moment is lost. Davey elbows his brother, and pauses awkwardly before explaining: “Our dad tangled with a delivery truck on the job, messed his leg up bad. So they laid him off. That’s how come we had to find work,”

“Yeah, sure, that makes sense,” says Jack, too quickly. He worries it sounds too callous and adds, “Sorry about your dad,”

Somehow, the envy he feels must be written all across his face, because Davey earnestly invites him over. “Why don’t you come home with us for dinner? Our folks would be happy to have you,”

It’s funny, because a part of Jack really wants to say yes. He really wants to go and meet Davey and Les’s parents, wants to eat a meal with them, see what a family is really like. But instinctually, he rejects it. “Thanks for the invite, but I just remembered I got plans with a fella. He’s probably waiting on me right now..”

He must not be as good a liar as he thinks he is, because Davey really does not look convinced. Jack’s trying to think for a better excuse out of the situation when Les calls his attention to a man behind him:

“Is that the guy you’re meeting?” he says curiously, and Jack turns over his shoulder and barely recognizes a figure before an angry voice rings out: “KELLY!”

Without even thinking about it, Jack begins to run, grabbing Les with one hand and Davey with the other, his heart pounding. If they can just get lost in the tangle of alleys…

Jack thanks God that Davey just goes with it, asking no questions but just following, at first. But Davey is fast and is leading them soon enough. For a while, Jack thinks of nothing but the pavement hitting his feet and the breath coming out of his lungs, but then he realizes they’re only two blocks away from the theater, and he knows a way in through the back.

“This way!” he hisses, slipping past Davey, cutting through an empty lot and then pulling them in through the back door.

Jack allows himself a moment once they’re in the top loft backstage, with the storage and the discarded sets. He breathes in and feels relief wash over him with the familiar smell of dusty curtains and old costumes. It’s been months since he last ran from Snyder, maybe he’s getting soft, letting himself get distracted. That had been too close.

When Jack says “Alright, slow down. I think we lost them,” and looks to Davey for approval. Davey instead decides he’s had enough.

“Someone wanna tell me why I’m running? I got no-one chasing me!”

This wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. Davey had actually been chased by police before (hence his quick instincts) and was at the moment being pursued by a radical socialist group he had abandoned months ago. Jack was, however, unaware of this and Davey was upset- it was dangerous for him to be running from the police (he was fairly sure he was on a list somewhere), and especially with his little brother! Jack Kelly may have done him a favor, but that didn’t mean Davey was gonna let him just march into his life and turn it upside-down, when he’d just spent months trying to make it normal and safe again. Jack doesn’t respond immediately, so Davey adds, “Who was that guy?”

(A small part of his brain is wondering if maybe the figure was following him, but that’s stupid. The figure yelled “Kelly,” after all and definitely wasn’t there for him).

Jack seems hesitant to respond, which is weird because for the day Davey’s known him he’s responded to everything with annoying, cocky comments. He should say something like “the queen of England,” or “the Russian mafia” or even “I can’t go back to jail!” in a high pitched voice, but he doesn’t. He is holding onto a railing-they’re on a platform some fifteen feet above the floor-and his grip tightens enough that Davey sees his knuckles turn white.

“That was Snyder, the spider. A real sweetie,” he says bitterly and it should be comic, because the name is ridiculous, like something out of a fairy tale, but it’s not. It’s not because Davey thinks maybe Jack is actually afraid. Davey glances at Les, who is captivated by Jack, but doesn’t seem disturbed by their escape or by Jack’s nervousness. Actually, Les looks like he’s having the time of his life. Jack pays no attention to him or to Davey, just continues in a flat voice: “He runs a jail for underage kids called the Refuge. The more kids he locks up, the more the city pays him. Problem is, all the money goes straight into his own pocket. Do yourself a favor and steer clear of Snyder and the Refuge,” Jack stops and yanks his hat roughly forward, leans over the rail and glares into the darkness.

So that’s Jack’s story, thinks Davey. Some dead father and then time rotting in a kids’ jail. No wonder he probably thought Davey was stuck-up. Compared to Jack, Davey was living a life of luxury.

Jack looks genuinely upset, and worse, he looks like he’s genuinely trying to hide it. Davey doesn’t know what he’s done to convince Jack to keep up some image, but he wishes he could take it back. He has a sudden impulse to touch Jack’s hand and say something comforting, but he can’t think of anything to say, and Les is there, and also he thinks that if he takes Jack’s hand he just might explode. (There had been a moment right after Snyder yelled and before they started running where Jack grabbed Davey’s hand and Davey didn’t know what was happening. They lost their grip about two minutes into the chase, but those two minutes Davey had felt like he was running on pure electricity.)

Suddenly, a tall, dark-skinned woman appears and says in a carrying voice: “Hey, you up there, shoo! No kids allowed in the theater!”

Davey is already turning to leave when Jack pulls his hat up, finds a patch of light, waves, and calls out charmingly: “Not even me, Miss Medda?”

“Jack Kelly, man of mystery!” she-Medda-says, and laughs. “Get yourself down here and give me a hug! Where have you been keepin’ yourself, kid?”

Jack has already climbed down a convenient ladder and is motioning for Davey and Les to follow, so they scramble down behind him. He gives Medda an affectionate hug and says, “Never far from you, Miss Medda. Boys, may I present Miss Medda Larkin, greatest star of the Bowery today! She also owns the joint.”

Medda laughs, charmed. “The only thing I own is the mortgage. Pleasure, gents,” she says, and extends her hand as though she expects Davey to kiss it. Davey, still a little bewildered by the fact that Jack knows this glamorous creature, and who has never had occasion to kiss someone’s hand before, awkwardly shakes it instead. He sees Jack’s grin and (because when Jack grins he wants to grin and he probably shouldn’t be grinning right now considering he’s just embarrassed himself and is possibly on the run from the law) turns away to look at Les- who is literally bowed over trying to look at a couple of chorus-girls.

“What’s wrong with you?” hisses Davey.

“Are you blind? They got no clothes on!” says Les, adamantly.

“That’s her costume!” 

“But I can see her legs!”

Sometimes Davey wishes his little brother wasn’t so observant.

Medda crosses over to them and taps Davey on the shoulder. “Well, step out of his way so’s he can get a better look!” she says regally. “Theater’s not only entertaining, it’s educational!” She smiles. “Got the picture, kid?” Les, his jaw hanging agog, nods.

Jack speaks up, a little guilty. “Miss Medda, I got a little situation on the street. Mind if I hide out here a while?” Davey gets the feeling this has happened before.

If it has, Medda gives no sign of being annoyed. “Where better to escape trouble than a theater? Is that Snyder after you again?” 

Jack doesn’t respond, just shrugs. Out of nowhere, Les decides (as the chorus girls have finally lost his attention) it’s a good time to find out Jack’s criminal history. “Hey Jack,” he says admiringly, “Did you really escape jail on the back of Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage?”

Davey may believe in the fantasy of a socialist dawn, but he still knows a tall tale when he hears one. “What would the Governor be doing at a juvenile jail?” he says pointedly.

Jack rolls his eyes and slinks, like a cat, around Davey, one arm stretched over Davey’s shoulders, the other gesturing outwards. “So happens he was runnin’ for office,” he says grandly, “and wanted to show he cared about orphans and such,” (Davey thinks Jack’s tone is decidedly casual here, but he isn’t thinking about it much. He’s wondering if it would be awkward to move when Jack’s arm is around him. Is he supposed to move? To lean into Jack? To shrug him off? Davey has no idea and prays fervently Jack won’t notice his indecision.) “So,” continues Jack obliviously, “while he got his mug in the papes, I got my butt in his back seat and off we rode together,”

Jack slides his arm off Davey. Davey, freed suddenly, opens his mouth to protest the story, when Jack catches his eye and winks, just as Les pipes in again with “You really know the governor?”

Davey shuts his mouth.

Medda interrupts: “He don’t, but I do! Say, Jack, when you’ve got time, I want you to paint me some more of those backdrops,” she gestures behind her, and Davey and Les turn to look at the painting. “This last one you did is a doozy! Folks love it…”

Davey stops paying attention to the conversation for a minute; he is lost in the painting. It’s a forest on a mountain somewhere. You can tell the snow is just beginning to melt, and somehow the chipping white paint seems to sparkle in the sunlight. The empty blue sky gives Davey a funny feeling of longing, especially when he sees a hawk or eagle-some big bird- flying away from the forest, spiraling upwards in an escape from the cold earth, onward to new horizons. Jack’s somehow captured the movement perfectly, and Davey wonders if the bird will fly straight off the canvas.

He hears Jack say dismissively, “Don’t get carried away, it’s just a bunch of trees,” and wonders how he can convince Jack he’s wrong. How can he express the longing the painting gives him, the desire for freedom he sees captured on the canvas? Jack is looking at him to see his reaction and suddenly Davey feels flustered and blurts out without thinking: “You’re really good!”

He says it too loud and at first is embarrassed, is going to explain, but then he sees that Jack is smiling, pleased that Davey likes it. Oh well, thinks Davey, good enough. He smiles back at Jack and for a moment they’re just looking in each other’s eyes, grinning stupidly.

“That boy’s got natural aptitude,” says Medda appraisingly, and the moment is gone. 

Medda sings, then, and it gives Jack time to think. Funnily enough, the song is about money and being gloriously, filthily rich, which Jack of course appreciates. It’s something he thinks he and Medda have in common: a hunger for money and success above all else. Of course, Medda is generous and kind and gracious, but she didn’t create her fairyland theater from nothing.

Perhaps because he’s heard the song before, his mind drifts and he finds himself watching Davey, who is lost in the music. He notices the little things- the way Davey’s hair curls just a little at the base of his neck, the way he bites his lip without thinking, the blue veins that are just barely visible on his thin hands.

Jack catches himself and glares at his own (calloused, clumsy) hands. He’s got it bad, hasn’t he, and it’s only been a few hours. He refuses to fall for this boy, this boy with a family and a home and a future. It would never happen.

He looks out at the audience pointlessly, angry at himself, and also angry at himself for being angry at himself (and so on), until somebody pretty catches his eye, up in one of the private booths, and his mind stops. She’s writing intently, and her red hair is cut unfashionably but is striking all the same, and something about her eyes and her frown make Jack want to sketch her face. He suddenly can see how it will all be: He’ll compliment her writing, and she’ll find his poverty dashing. There will be playful flirting and secret smiles, and he’ll brush back that red hair behind her ear and she’ll raise her hand to his cheek, and they’ll share a few kisses before they both move on. It will be breezy and light, a friendly summer romance, and they’ll both leave a little freer and a little sadder than they were before, and that will be it. No danger, no high stakes, no complications. Just a hot summer (the last one of the century) and somebody pretty to share it with.

Once Medda finishes singing, he slips away without a word to Davey and only a wink to Les, and climbs up to his mystery girl’s private box.

**Author's Note:**

> history notes:  
> joseph pulitzer was jewish but got married in the Episcopalian church. he also did fund the new colossus poem for the statue of liberty (that's the huddled masses yearning to breathe free poem, also where the title of this story comes from). his story is a genuine rags-to-riches one, which is neat and which I will be employing for full dramatic effect in this story. also, the pulitzers lost a child to TB- here, katherine's sister.


End file.
